The Dying of the Light
by CoryphaeusRex
Summary: Ankh-Morpork seems to finally have run out of criminals for Vimes to chase. Or perhaps it's his knees that won't let him live up to his nickname. Oneshot, depressing futurefic set in UC2015. Read author's notes beforehand.


**Author's Notes & Disclaimer:** I don't own Discworld, although I do have an almost complete collection of books, so that counts for something in the way of reference material. This is set in maybe UC2010 or thereabouts, making Vimes almost 70. It's very AU, mostly out of my head, but I do pride myself on accuracy in most of the setting, although the medical facts have been constructed from air, wikipedia, and narrative convenience. Rated for character death and assisted suicide, so don't say I didn't warn you. Could be taken as slashy, could equally be taken as a very good bromance, make up your own mind. Title taken from the poem 'Do not go gentle into that good night', which partially inspired this fic.

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Surely there had never been so many steps leading up to the Oblong Office?

The staircase seemed to get longer every day, but Vimes had huffed and puffed his way up them every day for the past eternity or so, and over the past few years he'd begun to count them, to ensure they hadn't multiplied overnight. His memory was still in relatively good nick (not being able to find your keys after you'd put them down five minutes ago didn't count, the universe did that to everyone), so he knew there were fifty-eight steps, the last one just slightly smaller than all the others, to catch you off guard at the top.

The waiting room was silent, as usual, except for that clock, the irregular tick hovering on the edge of Vimes' perception. He closed his eyes and listened to it. Over the years he'd almost begun to learn the pattern, assuming there was one, and it was becoming more like an old friend than the skin-crawling nuisance it had once been.

At ten, he was on his feet and halfway to the door when it opened to reveal Drumknott. Vimes gave him a cursory nod, and strode in as best he could, feeling his spine protest as it straightened from its habitual slouch.

"Punctual as ever, Vimes," Vetinari said, without looking up. Despite the years, his hair was still coal black, and every day Vimes strained to see any hint of grey, at roots or temples. Surely they didn't make dye _that_ good. Even his beard didn't show a single white streak, when by rights he should have been at least salt-and-pepper.

"Yes, sir."

"I hear you attended the Wizard's Excuse Me last night."

"Yes, sir."

"And stayed all the way to the end, Vimes. How very unlike you. Has Ankh-Morpork finally run out of criminals for you to chase?"

"No, sir."

"Then I congratulate you on having finally learned the difficult art of delegation." Vetinari looked up, flashing him one of those lightning fast smiles. "On that note, have you given any thought towards your ret-"

"No, sir," Vimes interrupted him, and even now he had to fight to make the words come out. "And I'd appreciate it if you didn't bring it up again, sir."

It was a mark of how long they'd been going through this ritual that Vetinari merely looked at him, then returned to the papers before him, running his fingers beneath the line that he was apparently interested in. "Very well, Vimes. Has Lieutenant Angua shown any inclination to return to service?"

"Still on maternity leave, sir. Captain Carrot is being very insistent about it, sir."

"I see."

"Wouldn't like to argue with the lad, sir. Brand new little girl to look after, he's got all eager to make the world a better place again."

Vetinari muttered something to himself which sounded like 'his natural state of being', then turned one of his pages, which were unexpectedly notched and torn around the top edge. "And how is young Sam?"

"Gone off to Sto Lat with some of his mates, sir. Keeping in touch with his mum with one of those new fangled quantum imps, mostly to ask for more money."

"And I see Cheery has taken leave to visit relatives in and around the Sto Plains. I wasn't aware she had family any nearer than Copperhead."

"You'd be surprised, sir."

"I'm sure. Things seem to be ticking over well, Commander. I am sure there will be enough, what do they call it now, 'drama' happening in the city to make tomorrow's report a more engaging one. Good day."

"Sir." Vimes turned on his heel and strode out again. Once the door shut behind him his muscles relaxed, and he slouched his way down the stairs and out into the bustling metropolis.

.

_How very unlike you._

Vimes spat expertly into the dished centre of one of the flagstones outside the palace. What did Vetinari expect of him, he was an old man now, and although the thought stung, he was edging his way carefully into the 'old', like a pair of slippers which may or may not have a spider hiding in the toe. Just because his Lordship had chosen to reject ageing when it came to call didn't mean everyone else had the luxury.

He'd been completely on top of the case from within the University, though, with one of those quantum imps, muttering instructions to Carrot and trying to hide it from Sybil. She'd just carried on talking with Lady Selachii, but he had a feeling she knew down to the last turning the directions he'd given his second-in-command.

Say what you like about technology (and Vimes usually did); instant, portable communication was keeping him from steadily going insane in his near-sedentary lifestyle. He half-wished Sam had shown any interest in being a copper, then at least he could have lived vicariously through his son, but Sam had long since set his heart on being a professional dragon-breeder, and Vimes the elder didn't have the heart for his 'real job' argument any more.

There was a polyphonic humming noise from inside his pocket. Ever since his quantum imp had figured out it could, by a process that it had unsuccessfully tried to explain to him once, hum in harmony with itself, it had been trying to build a choir of one. Getting the lyrics in time was proving slightly beyond its capabilities, but it could do tones rather well.

He pulled out the small brass box and flicked it open. The humming ceased, and the imp blinked at him.

"I almost had a perfect A flat chord there!" it said. That was the thing about the new breeds of imps. They had a tendency to be cheeky, and Vimes didn't have any time for that.

"Come on, what's the message? I don't have time for your chords."

"Sergeant Ping says he's got a Number 16, no TL papers, just bopped and hopped a LOL into Zeph, heading NE straight towards a G-run who've got the eyes out."

"In Morporkian?" Vimes had no time for the jargon that the younger officers used. Ping, in particular, had embraced it with an enthusiasm that was alarming.

The imp sighed, and began to pick at its tiny nails. "Mugger, no thief licence, got a little old lady's purse, heading north east down Zephire Street towards a bunch of gargoyles who are going to keep track of him," it rattled off, almost quicker than Vimes could follow.

North east down Zephire Street, that was fairly close to where Vimes was wandering. He took a deep breath and set off at a gentle-ish jog, picking up his pace as he became sure his knees weren't going to give out on him.

_How very unlike you._

He'd show Vetinari the 'art of delegation'! Ha! He could run as fast as the lot of them, faster, because he'd had more practice.

"Turned into Whilom Alley... no, Lobbin Clout now... heading for Market Street," came the voices from the palm of his hand, speaking over one another as the imp got updated with data from the gargoyles on watch.

Vimes skidded around a corner, marvelling a little at his own speed. He laughed, and the sound was whipped away by the fresh wind on his face. Gods, how he'd missed this!

He saw the running man just ahead of him, so close it'd only take a bit more speed to tackle him to the ground. He forced all of the energy he had into his legs, surely they could take a bit more.

The man must have turned, because Vimes felt a powerful blow to the left side of his chest, and he felt his left leg suddenly go weak and skid from under him. He was out before his chin hit the cobbles with a sickening crack.

.

"My lord, Commander Vimes has just collapsed on Esoteric Street."

"Is he alive?" the question came just a tiny bit quicker than Drumknott had expected.

"The watchmen seem to think so, my lord, although the beggars in the area were very sure he was dead."

"Have him brought here. Set up a bed in one of the wings of the palace."

Drumknott had been in this position far too long to ask 'are you sure' or 'why'. He nodded, then after a moment's thought said, "At once, my lord," then clicked his heels smartly and left the room.

Vetinari remained standing by the window, thin hands resting on the windowsill. His expression, stony as ever, was lit by the autumn sunlight, and he stared the bright orb down, unflinching, until Drumknott reappeared to tell him that Vimes had arrived at the palace, a limp body in the arms of Captain Carrot.

.

"I was under the impression you were taking paternity leave, Captain," Vetinari said as he entered the prepared room, his cane clicking lightly on the floor before him.

"Angua can look after herself for an hour or two, sir," Carrot saluted as soon as he saw the Patrician. "She told me to go. Said some things were more important than changing nappies."

"What appears to be the situation, Corporal Igor?" Vetinari asked, and only a very few people would have noticed the minute pause before the name.

"I'm afraid it'th not good, thur," Igor said, turning and semi-straightening up. There was the Igor tradition of the hunch, and then there was respect in front of a man who could easily have you thrown into a scorpion pit, or worse. "Hith heart'th almotht had it. And hith lungs aren't much cop either. He can't carry on for more than a couple of days with the bits he's got. Fortunately, I do have some wonderful thpareth in my lab..."

"No," Vetinari said, and Igor, who would usually bang on about surgical improvements for hours with a following wind, shut up.

There was silence for a few moments, and at the very edge of hearing, Commander Vimes' breathing was ragged and shallow.

"Igor, if you could wait outside," Carrot said, quietly. Igor limped away. "I don't think he'd want to have his organs replaced either, sir."

"I know he wouldn't, captain. And this is one area in which I will accede to his stubbornness." Vetinari's cane connected with the leg of a chair, and he slowly settled down into it.

"Would you like me to leave, sir?" Carrot asked, shifting his weight in anticipation of the 'yes'.

Vetinari smiled, a very faint and unfamiliar smile which didn't look quite at home on his face, but didn't look away from Vimes. "You have always been very perceptive, Captain. Yes, if you would not mind, I would like a few moments with the Commander."

"Take as long as you like, sir," Carrot said, as he closed the door behind him.

.

It was about forty minutes before Vimes regained any semblance of consciousness. His eyes opened a crack, to see Vetinari sitting not two feet from him, eyes worryingly intent on his face.

"What happened?" he said, bringing a hand to his chest and finding it connecting with cloth, not metal. "He must have had a punch like a troll to get through that armour. And why the hell am I in the palace?" There was a pause. "Sir."

"You haven't been injured, Commander," Vetinari said, quietly.

Vimes sat up, then as another stabbing pain shot through his chest he flopped back down on the pillows again. Vetinari's gaze didn't shift in the slightest.

"Pull the other one, sir, it's got bells on. That mugger must have had a troll mate or something."

"Check your chest, Commander. There is no bruise. You haven't been hit."

"Then what the hell happened?"

"I believe it's your heart, Commander. You are not as young as you were, and running at speed is not meant for men of your age. I imagine the cigars contributed as well. Whatever the cause, you had a spasm of the heart."

"So how long have I got to stay in bed? Because if it's anything longer than a week, sir-"

"You will have to remain in bed for a number of days, Sir Samuel. But, and I must make this very clear, it appears you will not be getting out of it."

"So I'm... I'm dying? Blow that!"

Vetinari raised an eyebrow.

"I mean, blow that, sir. There's too much to do! I can't die now, we're just getting the encryptions for the new generation of quantum imps right, and Igor swears he's found a way to read blood so it tells him who it's from, and-"

"You are dying, Commander," Vetinari said, and Vimes' mouth clopped shut in the face of the quiet, matter-of-fact way he said it. "Although, should you wish, Corporal Igor has offered-"

"I don't want any of that," Vimes said, brain operating on autopilot at the mention of the word 'Igor'. "If it's my time, it's my time. No operations, sir." And because he _was_ dying, and felt he could get away with it, he added. "You should have known that already."

"Which is why, you will notice, Corporal Igor is not preparing a surgical area within this room. I already anticipated your antipathy towards an unnatural life extension."

"Your bedside manner leaves a lot to be desired, sir," Vimes continued, suicidally emboldened by the fact that one quip had gone unpunished.

"I have not had much practice, Sir Samuel, in sitting by the bedsides of those dying of natural causes."

"Are you being nice to me because I'm dying?"

"I believe it is a common custom."

"Yes, well," Vimes said, and just left it there.

There was silence in the room for a few long minutes. Vimes cleared his throat, awkwardly.

"Is it going to be slow?" he asked, and he could feel the iron wall behind his words opening, just a crack.

"Quite possibly, Commander."

"And is it going to hurt like seven hells?"

"I imagine so. Your heart will be starved of blood until it is too weak to beat any more. There may be several spasms, such as that you experienced in the street."

"I see," Vimes' face shut down again.

"Captain Carrot is outside, Commander."

"Send him in."

.

Carrot had been... solemn. Vimes was faintly grateful that he hadn't gotten emotional- there was something about a six-foot-six man sobbing that he didn't think he could stand right now. He had asked all of the usual silly questions, like 'how do you feel', and he had held his helmet in his hands, as though Vimes were already dead.

He'd been followed by Nobby, who had sat companionably on the edge of his bed and chatted away about nothing much. Nobby had stayed for a good hour or so, despite his rumbling stomach, which Vimes could clearly hear. It had been a lonely world for Nobby, since Fred's death almost five years ago now, and Vimes was happy to let him gossip away the time until he had to go out and sit in a mess hall full of coppers who had suddenly and inexplicably become much younger. They'd all gotten younger and younger over the years, until even Carrot started to look weathered when set next to the new recruits.

After about an hour and a half of Nobby's company, there was another spasm.

To Nobby's credit, he didn't panic, he just hollered for Igor, who materialized in the room and administered something white and powdery that he said was essence of willow bark. The spasm faded after a while, and hadn't left Vimes out cold like the last one.

Nobby left shortly afterward, and Vimes refused to let his next guest in – Corporal Visit. He couldn't escape a couple of pamphlets being pushed under the door, but that was small beer compared to a full sermon on the state of his immortal soul.

.

It was dark by the time Vetinari returned. Vimes was halfway to an uneasy sleep, and woke from it with a start to that same oddly intent face which seemed to be studying a spot between his eyebrows.

"Come to read me a bedtime story, sir?"

There was a Look.

"I don't really have anything new to report, you know, except there's a moth headbutting the window that wasn't there this morning."

"I didn't come here on official business, Sir Samuel."

"Then why are you here? It's not like we're friends or anything."

"We have seen each other almost every day for the past thirty years. Many people's definitions of friendship depend on less. And besides, I felt you might appreciate someone to sit with you."

"So you can watch me die?"

"If you prefer to think of it as that, Commander, you may."

"That's morbid, even for you, sir." Vimes shifted in the bed, rolling gingerly onto his right side.

"I, however, prefer to think of it as keeping you company."

"Most people would have brought Sybil to sit with me."

"She has expressed a desire to visit, yes. Would you like me to send for her? I hear she is quite distressed."

Vimes had a sudden vision of tears and soggy embraces and a never-ending soundtrack of sobs, and deep down in his soul, decided he didn't want any of it. A second thought, papering altruism over the dark selfish core, suggested that he didn't want Sybil to see him like this, it would hurt her too much.

"She shouldn't see me like this," he said, as if reading it from a card behind his eyes. "I don't want her to."

"And yet you are happy to have me here," Vetinari said. Vimes looked at him sharply, usually his Lordship didn't go in for redundant words.

"With respect, sir, I've seen you in worse states than this, so I suppose this counts as a sort of payback."

"If you prefer to think of it as that, Commander, you may."

"Why are you r_eally_ here, though?" Vimes asked, displaying the dangerous tenacity that had led to the nickname 'Vetinari's Terrier'. "Isn't there a city to run outside?"

"The city will wait, Commander. I am here because I wish to be here. Do you have any more redundant questions?"

"Since you ask, yes. Do you dye your hair?"

"Commander, you really must learn to recognise a rhetorical question when one is put to you. Or not put to you, as the case may be."

"That's a yes, then," Vimes said, satisfied with the answer.

"If you prefer to think of it as that, Commander-"

"Oh, be quiet, sir. I'm trying to get some sleep." Vimes could feel his heart hammering in his chest, even though he was dying already there was something very dangerous about provoking the Patrician that started up the adrenaline rush.

"As you wish."

.

At about one o'clock in the morning, there was another spasm. Vimes came to just in time to see what must have been Igor leave the dark room. The silhouette of Vetinari was still in the exact same place it had been when he'd gone to sleep.

"Sir?" he reached out, and touched Vetinari's hand, resting on the top of his cane.

"Commander," came the response, and he felt the muscles in the hand twitch, but Vetinari didn't move it away.

"That was a bad one, sir."

"I am very sorry to hear that."

"I..." Vimes took in a deep breath. Confessing to a dark room would be easier than in daylight. "I don't want to die like this, sir."

"You have been almost stabbed several hundred times, Commander. I would not have thought you to be afraid of pain."

"You know what I mean. I don't want to die like this. Helpless and in pain and... and scared." There. That hadn't been so hard. He couldn't see that calculating expression, which helped.

"I am afraid that we must take the lot which is given to us, Commander."

"You trained as an assassin," Vimes forced out, but couldn't quite follow with the rest of the question.

"I did."

"I can pay, if you're worried about your precious Guild motto and code and whatever."

"This would be very unconventional, Commander."

"Would you do it?"

There was a very pregnant pause. Vimes hauled himself up, ignoring the weakness in his left arm, and reached out to take hold of Vetinari's shoulder.

"Sir, would you do it?"

"Inhume one of my employees? That would set a dangerous precedent, Commander."

"I'm not asking you as your employee, sir. I'm asking you as one man to another... Havelock."

"The official report-"

"-will say my heart gave out. That's what people are expecting anyway. It'll just be a little sooner than expected, and even Igor isn't a hundred percent accurate all of the time."

"Sometimes I wish you would ask me easier questions, Commander."

"Will you do it?"

"If you wish."

Vimes sagged back onto the bed. "Thank you, sir."

"I always imagined I would die before you," Vetinari said, apparently apropos of nothing. He stood, and slowly walked across the room in the dark, cane tapping just in front of his feet. "Like the saying: old coppers do not die, they simply fade away."

"Sorry to disappoint you, sir."

"How many assassination attempts did you survive before they took you off the register?"

"I lost count. Could have been a hundred. Probably less." On a hunch, Vimes reached out as quietly as he could, and lit the gas lamp at the side of the bed.

"I had surprisingly few after the first decade." There was a clink, and Vetinari made his way back across the floor, sitting down in the chair carefully.

"Humour a dying man, sir. Is it true what they say?"

"I hear a thousand rumours every day, Commander. Perhaps you could be more specific."

"They say you can't see a thing, sir. They say you've been blind as a bat for the past ten years."

"Very few people can see well in the dark, Vimes."

"The light's on, sir."

Vetinari let out a theatrical sigh. "I know that full well, Commander. The spark on the lamp makes a rather audible click. Blind as a bat is, perhaps, an apt metaphor. I have learned to use sound to find my way around. The Assassin's Guild training came in useful."

"It's a very good illusion, sir. I wouldn't have guessed if you hadn't given it away."

"A dying man cannot give away any secrets, Commander, and some men on their deathbeds deserve answers. I have been unable to see you as more than a faint blur for twelve years. For the past six, I have been completely without sight. As you can imagine, I have not informed the Guilds of this... development. It does not do to bleed in front of sharks."

"You could have told me."

"No, Sir Samuel. I was waiting for you to figure it out by yourself."

"You know I don't like being a sir."

"And you should have noticed by now that I do not particularly care to be addressed as such either."

Vimes almost laughed. "This is like the bit at the end of the magic show where you're showing me how you've pulled off all your tricks because I'm far too thick to figure it out. It's a bit patronising."

"Not too stupid, Sam. Just too focused on other, more important things."

"Since when do you call me Sam?"

"I can return to Sir Samuel, if you would prefer."

"No, that's... that's fine, I suppose." Vimes noticed the small pouch in Vetinari's hand. "So what's the plan?"

"This," Vetinari said, extracting a small vial from the bag, "will send you to sleep. And this," another, smaller vial, "will stop your heart."

Vimes couldn't stop staring at the second vial. Concentrated death in a bottle, it was nerve-wracking and awe-inspiring at the same time. Vetinari put both vials back in the bag.

"But that is for when we have finished talking."

"I thought we'd already finished."

"Not yet, Sam. I would like, if I may, to see you."

Vimes wasn't sure what he meant until he saw those thin fingers reaching towards him. He reached out for one wrist, and took it, placing Vetinari's fingertips against the rough, grizzled skin of his cheek. They were cold, and swept across his face like an icy breeze. Vimes closed his eyes.

"You spend far too much of your life frowning, Sam," Vetinari said, as the fingers ran across his forehead. "Always angry at the world for not being as you would have liked."

"My face aches when I smile."

"I thought it might be something like that." The fingers moved upwards, to where he'd once had hair but was now just a growing expanse of shiny skin. "Is your hair white, Sam? It was only grey the last time I saw."

"Almost. Young Sam's mates have started calling me the Hogfather behind my back."

"I believe you would need a beard for that role." The cold points swept down from his temples to the stubble at his chin, already growing after less than twenty-four hours since his last shave. They ran across the lines at the corners of his mouth, then left.

They sat in silence for a moment or two, Vimes' eyes still closed.

"Are you ready, Sam?"

"Do it."

There were a pair of neat little syringes in the bag, too, and Vimes watched the first being loaded with slight apprehension in the pit of his stomach.

"You will have about ten minutes."

"Are you going to stay?"

"I will have to administer the second vial," Vetinari said. "I will be here until the end, Sam."

"Tell Sybil I went peacefully, even if... even if I don't."

"You will. On my honour as an Assassin, Sam, you will simply fall asleep."

"How much do you want? For the... for the service?"

"Does it matter?"

"Yes. I want this done properly."

"Very well. I believe the price of a contract on you was AM$600,000 before you were removed from the register. Given your current importance in the running of the city, I believe AM$1 million will be appropriate for your inhumation."

"Done."

"Then, your arm, Sam. I won't insult you by doubting your wishes."

Vimes held out his left arm, and watched with a sort of fascination as the needle went in. He barely felt it, but then as the liquid emptied into his veins it itched, briefly.

"Ten minutes."

"Yes, Sam."

"So _do_ you dye your hair?"

"Of course. I am almost as old as you, Sam, only a vampire would not have a few grey hairs by this point in my life. Although why you would ask such a question with only a few minutes left to live is beyond me."

"If I don't find out these important little things, I might just rise from my grave to get all the answers. Speaking of which, are you a vampire?"

"No."

"Any kind of undead?"

"No."

"Have you ever been drunk?"

"Once."

"Are you going to let Carrot be king when I'm dead?"

"Possibly."

"How long do you sleep at night?"

"Usually less than four hours."

"Have you ever been with a woman?"

"Yes."

"Been in love?"

"This is a very odd mix of questions, Sam. And yes, I have been in love. Once."

"I'm just making sure you're a human being."

"Why?"

"Cos I'm about to ask you... something a bit... silly... hang on... what's happening..."

"Slowing your words down is a normal effect, Sam. It's working."

"Would you hold... my hand, s... Havelock? Just so I know... someone's there."

Vimes felt, vaguely, as though it was quite far away, a weight sitting down on the edge of the bed. He shuffled as best he could, but ended up looking a little like a fish on a line. He felt fingers lacing into... well, they were someone else's fingers, and because he could feel them that must mean they were his.

"Sir? Why... are... you..."

"I'm a human being, Sam." The voice seemed to come from the end of a long tunnel. "I'm going to hold your hand as you die."

"Thank... you..."

"I'm going to miss you, Sam." There was the sensation of something warm pressing against his forehead, and the voice began to sound even more muffled. "It won't be the same without you around."

"Good... night... Havelock..."

"Good night, Sam. Sleep well."

.

Vetinari pulled a second syringe out of the bag and loaded it up with the contents of the second vial. It might not be necessary, with the amount of barbiturates in Vimes' system, he might just drop off the mortal plane naturally. But there was his word, and the verbal contract to think about. He'd promised, and even despotic tyrants have to keep their word sometimes.

The needle slid easily into Sam's limp arm. Once it was empty, Vetinari laid it on the dresser, and pulled the commander's limp form a little higher up the bed, until Sam's head was resting on his shoulder. In his own private world of blackness, he could barely hear the shallow breathing, even next to his ear, and deliberately slowed and quietened his own to listen better.

At one-forty-three in the morning, Sam's light breathing stopped.

Vetinari hadn't cried for as long as he could remember, and even then he doubted he ever had before the horizon of memory. Now, in the dark and the quiet, he simply gave a long sigh, pulled Sam's body a little closer to him, and said "oh, Sam."

.

At two a.m. precisely, Vetinari opened the bedroom door. Captain Carrot sat, apparently asleep, in an antique chair that had been dragged through several corridors for the purpose. His helmet rested on the end of the arm of the chair

"Sir Samuel has passed away, Captain," Vetinari said, and Carrot stood from the chair in one movement, no sign of sleep on his face.

"I'm sorry, sir."

Vetinari didn't reply.

"I'll go and inform the Lady Sybil. I'm sure she would like to know that someone was with him when he died."

"And it was you, Captain," Vetinari said, right on the edge of hearing. "You were by his side when his heart gave out. I was in my own quarters. The city does not run itself."

"Just as you say, sir."

.

A week later, after Sam Vimes' quiet, downmarket and defiantly non-state funeral, the Sunshine Sanctuary for Sick Dragons got an anonymous donation of AM$1 million.

.

Four years and six months later, a white-haired Vetinari died in his bed. The verdict of the doctors was old age, however a book ran for a further week as to whether he would rise from his grave. He was cremated, and his ashes were put in a small ornamental urn and entrusted to the care of one Commander Ironfoundersson, who told the Times he would 'put them in the care of a far more suitable guardian'.


End file.
